all these very interesting loose ends
by BerryliciousCheerio
Summary: "A family in harmony will prosper in everything" - a Chinese Proverb. Therefore, anyone throwing the family out of harmony is directly to blame for any and all misfortunes. Or, at least, so it would seem to one Moira Jackson. It's enough to make a girl wonder if she's really needed around, anymore.
1. some people care too much

**Eyyyy der, it's been, pfft, what, like two years since I've written for this fandom? Heh. Heh heh. No biggie or anything.**

**Disclaimed.**

**(and yes, I am working to finish up Random HalfBlood Story!)**

* * *

**_commence_**

* * *

The principal's office has never looked so intimidating.

Moira tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and adjusts her bag on her shoulder, steeling her nerves before walking in. Though this is not the first time there, nor will it be the last, this is all the scarier, considering the fact that Dr. Tomlinson had sworn to call her parents the next time she acted up. And that in itself is scary as hell.

Dr. Tomlinson is seated behind her desk, fingers laced upon the surface, and she gestures to the chair opposite her. "Moira Jackson, what am I going to do with you?"

Moira smiles weakly and suggests, "Let me stay?"

Dr. Tomlinson sighs mournfully and says, "This is the twenty-seventh time I've seen you in my office since the beginning of the year. I don't…I'm not sure I can overlook this." Dr. Tomlinson reaches for the phone, and Moira's stomach drops.

"Dr. Tomlinson, could we maybe work this out without involving my parents?"

"I let you slide on a lot of things, Moira, but you keyed a teacher's car. I have to call your parents."

"But–."

"Moira, if they're…if they're hurting you, you can tell me."

Dr. Tomlinson's hand stays near the phone, and Moira, for a moment, considers her options.

She could easily say that her parents were abusing her, say that any time she did anything out of line, she'd get backhanded across the face, whipped on the legs. But there is that pesky matter of scars, of which she is hopelessly devoid of, save for the one from some unfortunate run-ins at camp.

She could say that they hit her with things that won't leave marks. But then she'd get taken away, same with the rugrats, probably, and they'd be forever messed up because of it. Her mother would probably die, rather than lose her children. Her father would lose it.

For all their faults, she wouldn't wish that upon them.

Instead, she lowers her eyes and studies her hands, and, finally, says, "They don't hit me, but–…Dr. Tomlinson, my mom, she'd…I don't know if they'd let me stay there anymore."

"There, as in home?"

Moira nods.

It is a well-known fact amongst the natives at Tallmadge College Preparatory Academy that Moira is the daughter of _the_ Percy Jackson and _the _Annabeth Chase. It is also a well-known fact amongst the natives that Moira is about as fond of her parents as they are of her, which, unfortunately, is not very.

But Dr. Tomlinson is new, and has only heard whispers from the teachers after parent night, when neither of Moira's parents showed up, even though she had two series of photographs and a collection of essays and poems on display in their Examples of Exemplar hall.

Moira didn't blame her, because it's not as if she keeps her heart on her sleeve and her secrets printed on her forehead.

The only reason that so many kids knew is because, back in sixth grade, she had taken to hanging out in the alcove under the stairs until almost seven at night, when she knew that her parents would be busy trying to get the younger kids bathed and in bed, when she could slip into their apartment unnoticed.

Dr. Tomlinson asks sympathetically, "Why is that, Moira?"

She bites her lip.

Why is it, exactly?

She could never quite put her finger on it, but she feels as if her parents wished that she had not been born, wished that she, their eldest, their little oops, had never existed, that they had been smarter in college, when they thought they were invincible.

She always had the feeling that, if she messed up one time too many, she'd be out a home, a warm meal, and a family.

Her friends tell her that she's crazy, that she has the coolest parents in the world, because they basically let her do whatever the hell she wanted, let her buy whatever she wanted, but there is always that dark cloud looming over her. They can throw as much money as they wanted at the problem, but that problem is her, and she doesn't seem to be going away.

Instead of voicing this, she mumbles, "I don't know. They don't want my bad behavior affecting the little kids, maybe."

Dr. Tomlinson moves her hand away from the phone, lacing her fingers again, and she says calmly, "Suspension, one week but I'll let you finish out the day, detention, four weeks, and academic study hall for the rest of the month. I'll talk to Mr. Dietrich about not pressing charges."

"I doubt he will."

Dr. Tomlinson looks up sharply and asks, "Why do you think that?"

How does she say how she knows? Does she say that she's been sleeping with him since the summer, and that he knows that if he gets pissy about this and goes to the cops, whatever punishment dealt to her will look like playtime compared to what he'll get when she turns him in for statutory and an inappropriate relationship with a student?

No.

Because she likes having that leverage on him, likes the power, likes feeling like a god for once in her life.

"Because it was an honest mistake and I'm paying for the repairs. I really thought that it was my boyfriend's car."

Her boyfriend, whom she dumped months ago, but Dr. Tomlinson doesn't t know that. In fact, no one at Tallmadge knows that, because he's a camper and they all just assumed he's an upperclassman.

Moira offers a weak smile, and Dr. Tomlinson must believe her, because she is immediately released from the office.

Outside, Elissa's waiting, her eyes hopeful as she smiles at Moira. "Your parents didn't get called?"

Moira grins and nods, letting Elissa grab her and hug her. "Yay!" she shrieks, startlingly close to Moira's ear. "You can stay over tonight!"

The bell rings, interrupting what Moira starts to say, and sends the two girls scurrying in opposite directions.

Moira's next class is Greek History, a class that her parents pressured her into and that she hated, and, to be quite honest, she has no interest in going to it today. Instead, she gathers her things from her locker and takes the elevator up to the rooftop parking, sliding her keys out of the bottom of her bag and unlocking her car, a gift from her parents for her sixteenth birthday.

The Volvo is still relatively new; sans the dent on her bumper from an unfortunate incident with a harpy that ended with one party as road kill.

After tossing her things into the backseat, she starts the car up, twisting in her seat to see as she begins to back up. The drive home is slow, thanks to midday traffic. She has no doubt that her parents, or at least one of them, is part of it, on their way to meet the other for lunch at 'their' diner. At least the apartment will be empty.

She rolls her windows down, happy that it's unreasonably warm in mid-November, sure that she should be worried about global warming, but not caring enough to worry in the slightest. It takes twenty minutes for what would have been a five minute walk, but she hadn't wanted to leave her car at school overnight, nor had she wanted to lug all of her things home in her arms, so, in Moira's mind, it's worth it.

As she pulls into the parking garage, however, it's mostly empty, allowing her the coveted spot right by the elevator that's usually taken by the jackass that lived two floors up and one unit over to the left.

Not that she cares.

She totally doesn't care.

Moira abandons most of her books, dumping them out of her bag onto the backseat and leaving her with only what one would find in any normal teenaged girl's purse; cell phone, wallet, assorted makeup, cigarettes, assorted pens, lighter, an array of weapons and defensive gear, granola bars, and tampons. All the necessities.

Moira waves at the doorman, and closes her eyes in the elevator.

She's not expecting to walk into her home and find her mother stretched out on the couch in sweatpants and an old t-shirt of her father's. Her mother has an arm flung over her eyes, and must have only heard the door open and then close behind Moira, because she says grumpily, "Percy, please tell me you've got–."

Moira drops her bag on the floor and says, "Mom."

Her mother moves her arm enough to see her, her frown deepening until it almost seemed like the lines on her forehead were carved into stone. In arguments, her mother always liked using that as an attack.

_"See what you're doing to me, Moira? I'm going to look eighty by the time I'm forty, and it's all because of you!" _

Her mother asks, "What are you doing home?"

"I could ask the same," Moira shoots back, crossing her arms and leaning against the column that marked the entrance to the kitchen.

"Seeing as I am the adult in the room, I'm going to require an answer."

Moira, being of sound mind and questionable character, decides that she's done with this. She scowls and saunters into the kitchen, retrieving the week old Chinese food box, and then rummaging through the drawers in search of a fork. At one point in her life, her mother had promised to teach her how to use chopsticks. Obviously that didn't work out.

As she leans against the counter and begins eating, her mother says irritably, "Moira, answer me, please."

"Felt sick," she mumbles, tripping over the words as she shoves food into her mouth. She hears her mother shift on the couch, and she freezes for a moment, fully expecting her mother to come barreling in, lecture at the ready.

"So you decide that eating leftovers is the answer?"

Unexpected.

And far too calm.

…The fuck?

Moira rounds the corner of the kitchen and asks, "Are you feeling okay?"

"Honestly," her mother begins, her arm already firmly planted over her eyes again, "no. I went to meet your father for lunch and puked."

If she had been feeling sick all week, then that explained why she was so calm when Moira had a guy sneaking out of her bedroom on Monday, or when she just didn't come home on Thursday.

Feeling an unbidden pang of sympathy, Moira asks, "Can I get you something?"

"No, that's okay. Thank you. Your father's supposed to be on his way back with ginger ale."

Just as she says it, the door opens quietly, quite unlike how her father usually enters, so he must have been anticipating her mother being worse. Moira turns, offering her father a bit of a smile as she takes one of the bags of groceries from him, balancing the paper bag against her hip and keeping a firm hold on her takeout. It must not register that she's home far too early in the day, because he thanks her breathlessly and follows her into the kitchen, dropping his bag onto the counter and grabbing a can of ginger ale out of it before heading out to tend to his wife.

Moira rummages through the bags, identifying and setting aside what needs to be put away in the fridge before she shoves the two bags back against the wall. She does what's expected of her, and puts away what she had set aside, sighing as she hears her parents muted voices.

Her mother is no doubt ratting her out.

When her father comes back into the kitchen, she braces herself for what she had missed out on with her mother. She glances up at him cautiously, peering at him through her eyelashes.

When he says nothing, she stabs at the noodles and asks, "So?"

Earlier in life, she had been close to her father. And, really, in comparison to her relationship with her mother, she still is. This did not mean that she's looking forward to whatever is about to happen.

"Moira, what happened at school today?" He sounds so tired, it hurts her.

She bites her lip.

Looks up and studies her father for a moment, takes in the few strands of gray in his jet black hair, takes in the premature wrinkles in his forehead, around his eyes, and feels a pang of guilt, not unlike the ones she feels occasionally for her mother when she is particularly tired or broken down. Those are becoming more and more infrequent.

Moira sighs and says, "I got in trouble for writing on the bathroom wall again." Her old standby, always good for when she can't pull off the sick excuse. "I got sent home early," she continues.

Her dad sighs, dragging his hand down the side of his face in exhaustion. "Moira, I don't…I don't know what's happened to you."

Making a face, she decides not to respond.

"Just don't let it happen again," he finishes before sighing and walking out.

Not wanting to be there as they discussed punishments, she scoops up her bag and slips out the door.

* * *

**_tbc_**

* * *

**review?**


	2. i think it's called love

**Disclaimed. Moira's mine though. :)**

* * *

**BEFORE**

* * *

_Moira ducks a swing of her opponent, tucking her limbs in to roll under him, springing up and dealing a blow of her own, the butt of her sword cracking against the bone of Malcolm's nose. _

_He stumbles back a few steps and grins at her, his approval warming her to her core, filling the space in her left empty by absentee parents. _

_It's her sixth summer at camp. _

_They've been sending her since she was old enough to articulate her reasons behind wanting to go. It's as she ages that she realizes that that was the age her mother was when she first came to camp. It makes it less special in a way, takes away something she once thought was unique to her. She refuses to let it dampen her mood today, however. _

_Malcolm has always been her favorite amongst the camp counselors, and she can actually find it in her to look past the fact that he shares the same godly parent with her mother, that, if she wants to get technical, he's her half uncle. But then again, so is half the camp. _

_She's a bit of an oddity at camp, the first of her kind, the first legacy, or a grandchild of the gods. Puts her in an awkward position, quite honestly._

_ But whatever. __During sword practice, she can forget about that. _

_He's about her mom's age, maybe a couple of years older, and she, being thirteen and thoroughly deprived of love, sees him as a replacement parent. He doesn't disappoint, spending extra time working on her fighting technique, or lack thereof. It makes sword practice all the more fun. It doesn't hurt that she's actually good at it too, after some training, takes a bit after her dad. _

_Malcolm walks over after he's regained his bearings and claps her on her back. _

_His praise carries her through the rest of the day, leaves her in a happy daze even as that idiot from the luuurve cabin makes another pass at her, even as she eats alone at dinner, in the corner at an unused table that once served as her Uncle Nico's, like always, unsure of what table would welcome her; Athena or Poseidon, or, hell, maybe she could even sneak in at the Hades table (because no one would notice her blonde head amongst all their dark haired one. Totally). _

_She's starting to feel just the tiniest bit lonely when Malcolm catches her eye from his place at the head table, and he grins blindingly at her. _

_She smiles back._

* * *

**...**

* * *

She spends the rest of her day outside a Starbucks, chain smoking and downing pumpkin spice lattes like it's her job.

Wouldn't it be better, she wonders, if she were to set up residence in one of the apartments above the café, where all the runaways and unwanted stay, if only for a little while, to establish themselves as autonomous units, completely independent of their origin?

It'd be simple enough, packing a bag and leaving in the dead of night, leaving neither hide nor hair to prove that she had ever existed in the first place.

Her parents could report her missing, do the whole worried-parent shtick they seem so good at, and get brownie points for trying, and for raising four other, well-adjusted human beings.

She could move west.

See Mount Rushmore; carve her name into the Hollywood sign. Be someone that isn't allowed to exist, at this point in time. It sounds like paradise, and she's about two minutes away from saying _fuck it_ and just driving west, right now, draining her bank account on the way.

But then her phone rings, a call from Elissa, no doubt, and she remembers that this Saturday she volunteered to work a double, covering for her only coworker, a single mother whose daughter has some mystery disease, and, oh, shit, she needs to finish writing her college entry essay.

California, and all it promises disappears from her cluttered mind, leaving her all too aware of New York and all it denies.

Moira lights another cigarette, ignoring the insistent buzzing of her phone next to her on the table, and takes a drag.

* * *

**...**

* * *

She stops by the apartment to pack a bag for Elissa's house, but only once she's sure that the stench of Manhattan has wiped all traces of nicotine off her person. Still, she hesitates outside her door, and does a quick sniff-check of her clothes, popping another piece of gum to mask her breath.

When she finds it in herself to open the door, she's met with a quartet of little bodies slamming into her legs.

She supposes they must feel like they haven't seen her in forever, she, they're mythical, detached older sister, who leaves the apartment before they wake and returns long past when they've gone to sleep, she who spares them a wan smile in the inbetweens. It leaves them craving more from her, and she understands that feeling, wanting more from someone ill-prepared to give it.

She pats their heads lightly, greeting them in her own, stilted way, before shaking them off and closing the door to her room, flipping the lock as an added precaution.

Don't misunderstand, she does love her siblings. She remembers each of their births, was recruited to help with diapers and feedings and playtime. She volunteers to shuttle them from place to place, will assist with homework when needed. She just resents what their arrivals did to her world.

If that makes sense.

She doesn't think it does.

Instead of spending more time thinking on this, Moira packs a bag quickly, stuffing what she thinks she'll need in without bothering to fold or carefully arrange. When she's done, when she has enough candy bars hidden away, when she has everything she needs, she unlocks the door and, waiting in the hallway, listens for signs that it's safe to leave.

It's quiet, save for the muted sound of a TV on in the other room, the boys' room. She figures that the rugrats are huddled in front of it, waiting to worship the god that is the Disney channel.

Her parents are in the kitchen, and she doesn't want to have to wheedle her way out the door, so she takes the fire escape. It's just easier this way.

She pulls up outside Elissa's house, a little worse for the wear, with rust streaks staining her shirt and dust on her jeans, but then again, that's usually how she appears on Elissa's front door. She parks on the street, in a rare opening that she silently thanks the god of parking for. Is there a god of parking? There ought to be, so she'd know who to curse when she loses a spot to a pain in the ass soccer mom at Target.

Elissa's parents are still at work, and, with the sun only just beginning to set, they would remain there for another couple of hours, at least.

She lets herself in with the key above the door, and calls out, "Honey, I'm home!"

She hears Elissa before she sees her. Elissa, though diminutive in size, was never very good at stepping lightly, or breathing softly, or any of the other things that one would associate with a person of pixie-like stature.

Instead, Moira hears her footsteps thundering down the stair, where she stops halfway to yell up, "Moira's here; don't you dare walk out without pants on!" So her brother must be home, then.

Moira grins up at her friend, dropping her bag in the foyer as she always did, next to Elissa's soccer bag, and Evan's football bag. She joins Elissa on the stairs, and Elissa smacks her arm, asking about where she ran off to during school.

Moira's good at this next bit, the evasion. She tells her that she had a family emergency, which, over the course of their friendship Elissa had learned roughly equated to "I fucked up and my parents wanted to yell at me, so no more questions, m'kay?"

It's enough to get away from the topic.

* * *

**...**

* * *

In the dark of night, it's hard to deny the shadows.

They ebb when she stares directly at them, but in her peripherals, when she looks away to listen to Elissa, they strengthen, filling out until she swears they may overwhelm her. She thinks that that's what is so scary about the dark, how when one looks straight on, it looks like one thing, something harmless, but when one is unguarded, distracted, they become monsters in the night.

And she's seen real monsters.

These are worse.

She tosses and turns in the night, enough to keep her up, but not so much as to wake Elissa, who sleeps like the dead.

It's usually not this bad, she thinks miserably.

Usually it's lying awake for an hour and then, oh, look, it's morning and she's been sleeping for eight hours. But tonight, it seems worse; every time she closes her eyes she sees him telling her that no one will believe her; seeing the chimera's huge paw swiping at her, dangerously close to an artery; seeing the sea close around her, swallowing her whole.

It's all rather haunting, at one forty seven in the morning.

She almost wishes her father was there to come in and soothe her back to sleep. For everything he had failed her in, he is the only one capable of driving back the shadows, the memories, the night terrors, and allowing her peace for eight to ten hours.

But for now, she's virtually alone, her sleeping friend not counting, and she rolls over on her side, facing the wall, and tries to sleep.

* * *

**...**

* * *

She and Elissa wake around the same time, just as the autumn sun peeks over the horizon, turning the sky a pinkish gray. She thinks it's a testament to their friendship, their internal alarm clocks programmed to the same timing. It's nice, being on the same page as someone else.

They lounge in her room for a bit, watching as Matt Lauer delivers them the news of the morning.

Moira sprawls out on Elissa's bed, all five feet and seven inches of her stretched to their fullest, allowing her muscles time to wake.

She got her body from her mother, tall and slender, though Moira has never been as good at eating right and exercising and thus carries a few extra pounds around her hips, landing her firmly within a pear shape that, if you were being generous, could be called an hourglass. It's not something she minds, though her height sometimes makes it hard find clothes, as it's made up of mostly leg.

Elissa always bemoans her lack of height, but Moira thinks it fits her, making her seem almost like a fairy. Elissa's short and curvy, with the sweetest face that anyone could have.

No one would call Moira's face sweet.

Beautiful, maube. Haunting, definitely. The last one had less to do with her actual face, she supposes, and more to do with her eyes, and the fact that those eyes had seen more death and hatred and pain than any person only aged sixteen-almost-seventeen years should ever be exposed to and the fact that they _showed _that.

The curse of the demigod, she thinks ruefully, startling out of her reverie when she realizes that Aunt Piper's on TV, giving an interview about the peace talks in Syria. Moira turns away from the television, focusing her attention on the window instead.

There's nothing of interest there.

She sighs.

Elissa glances up at her, and says brightly, "Let's go out for breakfast."

* * *

**...**

* * *

Ihop is not particularly crowded, it never is, but everyone there is seated in the same section, and the sense of being surrounded sends shivers up Moira's neck.

She's never been a fan of enclosed spaces, especially particularly populated enclosed spaces, usually saying it was because there might be a monster mixed in and that the ensuing battle would injure more than if it was empty, but, quite honestly, she just hates feeling claustrophobic.

Funny that the two things she craves most are closeness and distance. Even her wants are conflicted.

She feels the sudden urge to bang her head against the table, but then their waitress brings the coffee carafe and all is right in the world again.

A phobia trades evenly for an addiction, she thinks, pouring herself a cup and sipping it slowly, eyes darting from one table to another, sizing each person up as a potential opponent. If Elissa notices her distraction, she's kind enough not to say anything.

When the air stills, she knows something is about to happen.

And then, oh, fuck, it does.

The old guy sitting at a table alone, the one that she actually pitied, the one she wrote some tragic background story for in her head, lunges at her, his gnarled hands smoothing into slim, feminine hands, his face aging in reverse, though not attractively, his sparse white hair thickening, lengthening, begins hissing.

Stheno?

Wasn't she dead?

She reaches into her bag for a gun, or her sword, maybe a dagger, _something_, when she realizes Elissa's looking at her weird, and the old man's just sitting there, sipping his coffee alone and making no move towards her whatsoever.

She was hallucinating…?

"Um," she starts, and, unable to complete the sentence without risking being hauled away in a straight jacket, begins chugging her coffee. Elissa is quiet, and lets it slide.

Again.

They've been friends since kindergarten, after being seated alphabetically –_Moira Jackson, Elissa James_– and throughout their eleven years, Elissa has seen Moira battered and sliced and diced and _broken_, in both the literal and emotional sense, and has had the trust and decency to not question it past the one night in fourth grade, right after one of their classmates was found beaten to death in her family's apartment, when she asked, in all seriousness, if her parents were abusing her.

It was slightly laughable then, and it still is now, but only slightly.

Sometimes, more then than now, she wished that they would just hit her and be done with it.

At least have the decency to give her something concrete that she could argue her escape upon.

Needless to say, she had assuaged Elissa's fears for her, had placated her enough so that she calmly accepted Moira's appearance, no matter how gruesome.

She thinks that she gave her some half-assed line about being part of a mixed martial arts group, knowing that Elissa, the pacifist, would have no such interest in tagging along to a 'class'.

Elissa does not know what she's been through, does not know the deep trenches of her soul, lined with skeletons and blood and tragedy, does not know half of her DNA, but she loves her and accepts her, which is more than some.

Sometimes, like now, when Elissa doesn't question her strangeness, her twitchiness, Moira has the strongest, sudden urge to hug her.

She doesn't.

She's never been very good at affection.

* * *

**...**

* * *

Her parents are waiting for her when she walks in, barely over the threshold when they (read: her mother) descend upon her.

Her father has that pinched look on his face, the look he gets when she's gone and disappointed him again, but who the hell is he to think that he can disapprove of _her_ disappointing _him_.

Her mother looks drawn and pale, but nonetheless livid, and she snaps, "Moira Zoë Jackson, where the _hell_ have you been?"

She drops her bag and thinks bitterly _hi Mom, hi Dad, nice to see you too_.

Moira kicks the door closed and then leans against it, her arms crossing defensively in front of her, and she feels vulnerable and cornered, something like a caged animal, and she thinks morbidly, guiltily, for a moment, what it would be like to be a tiger, to rip her fangs through her mother's throat and let it be blamed on her for caging the beast, let it be a natural course of things, a natural progression when one refuses to let it be.

She responds, her mouth pinched into a scowl, "I stayed over at Elissa's. I told you about it on Tuesday, and you were fine with it."

Her mother's eyes widen at her insubordinate tone, and her father places a calming hand on her shoulder before saying in that tight, controlled way that tells her more of his anger than any look or any sigh could ever, "That was before you keyed a teacher's car and then lied to us about it."

Moira's blood runs cold.

Dr. Tomlinson–

that _bitch_–.

"Mr. Dietrich called us."

Her blood, once freezing, ignites, fury pulsing through her veins as she grasps what he is saying.

Who the _fuck_ does he think he is? Thomas Dietrich is a coward, that's what he is. He knows that he can't go to cops with her, but he can tattle on her to her mommy and daddy. Everything that she had told him in the dark of night, in between soft hotel sheets, every word she had used to describe her dysfunctional relationship with her parents, he is using that all against her now, that _dick_.

She wants to tell them.

She really does.

She wants to let her secrets come tumbling forth, scattering onto the ground for them to sort through, for them to decide which is the most disturbing.

She wants to tell them about sleepless nights spent at the Marriott with her married teacher who left bruises on her arms and thighs that she kept hidden for weeks, she wants to tell them about the night she went out drinking and drove home, hoping to die on her way, and she wants to tell them how spectacularly they have failed her.

Instead she answers calmly, detached with a shrug, "I thought it was someone else's." Then she scoops up her bag and pushes past them.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, Moira? He could press charges," her mother calls after her, confirming the lack of little listening ears by her use of fuck.

Moira calls over her shoulder, employing a maddening smirk that she always liked using during arguments, "I'm pretty sure he won't."

She slams her door closed behind and flips the lock. She can hear her mother storming down the hallway, and then she's at her door, pounding and yelling at her, but Moira slips her ear buds in and drowns her out.

* * *

**...**

* * *

**BEFORE**

* * *

_It doesn't take long for her to start crying. _

_Her parents are talking about the summer, and her mother says something about what they're going to do while Moira's at camp, and she freaks. Drops her fork and runs from the dining table, her chair falling backwards from the momentum and crashing against the floor. _

_She slams the door to the bathroom and locks it, and crouches in front of the toilet, feeling like she's going to vomit._

_ All she sees is him, and his gray eyes– the same fucking gray as her mother's, as her own, and god, now even her body is a traitor. _

_She hears footsteps, and, distantly, Sofia asking sweetly, "What's wrong with Momo?" _

_She's only four, and she's already seen her older sister break down the middle. Someone knocks on the door, gently, tentatively, and it takes her back there. A knock at the door of the cabin, a knock that she follows blindly into the night, a knock that becomes her undoing. _

_She lets a sob escape, but let's be honest, she doesn't let it so much as it claws its way up her throat, because she really doesn't have any control over her body anymore, does she? And that's all it takes for her to turn into a quivering little thing, curled into a ball in the bathtub, sobbing into her knees. Another knock. _

_"Moira, can you please let me in?" _

_Her daddy sounds so old, and she knows that this, her mystery affliction it must seem to him, is aging him, and that hurts, that what that man did to her is affecting her father, her hero. She finds she can't respond, too busy crying, and the knocking stops. _

_"Moira, are you okay?" _

_She cries in response, her sobs turning into wails. _

_She hears him back away and yell, "Annabeth, where's the key to the bathroom?" _

_Her mother's response is muted, but she can tell from here that it's something about it being lost. She hears her father sigh, and then, "Moira, get away from the door, baby." _

_She cringes at the pet name. _

_The door splinters from the force of her father throwing his weight against it._

_ She knows that he is her father, and that he is only trying to comfort her, to relieve her of whatever this is, but when he reaches out to draw her to him, she shrieks, seeing his hand instead of her fathers, and she scrambles back, until she's as far away from her father, from the door, from this world as she can possibly be and right then, in that bathroom, she doesn't think she'll ever feel safe again. _

_Her daddy calls over his shoulder, "Annabeth, come in here!" and he sounds terrified, like he's afraid she'll break all alone in her little corner, tucked up into her little ball as she is. _

_Her mother hurries in from, what Moira assumes was, entertaining Sofia whilst her eldest child lost it. _

_Her father stands quickly and switches places with her mother, slipping out to keep Sofia entertained and keep her away from the bathroom and her sister and whatever this was._

_ Her mother kneels in front of her, and for a moment, Moira's about to let herself be comforted. And then she locks eyes with her. _

_Moira screams, "Get away from me!" and her mother does, shocked and looking more than a little hurt. _

_But she does._

* * *

**...**

* * *

**I would seriously appreciate a review, because I feel like this is the first chapter that I got to really delve into Moira's character, and I would love to know what you all think about her, and I would love even more if you could tell me if you think that Percy and Annabeth are realistically protrayed as her parents? It's been so long since I wrote for this fandom, that it's like a learning curve for me, in getting to know all the characters again. So...review?**


	3. how lucky i am to have something

**HOLY HELL, THE HUNGER GAMES CAST IS SOMEWHERE ON MY ISLAND, AND JOSH WAS AT MY FAVORITE RESTARAUNT, AND HE AND LIAM WERE IN THE CHRISTMAS PARADE (all of which I missed, of course), ALKSNASKCN.**

**^please ignore the insane fangirling above. :)**

**disclaimed.**

* * *

**...**

* * *

Her parents won't look at her this morning. She's not sure what they talked about after she had locked her door and turned her music up, but whatever it was, it can't have been anything to her benefit. Her stomach is in knots, an unnecessary side effect from inspiring disappointment in her parents, but it passes soon enough.

She makes herself a cup of coffee, loaded with honey and no cream, and a dash of vanilla extract that makes her feel exotic, her main reason behind making her own coffee in the morning being that her parents take their coffee black (her mother), and sweet enough to create cavities (her father).

She's not sure what she'll do when the rugrats start drinking coffee.

But considering the nine year age difference between her and Sofia, the oldest of the four, she doubts she'll still be in the house when they do.

The rugrats breeze through, and Cassandra, the youngest, the one that Moira affectionately calls Monkey, due in part to her early tendency to hang onto Moira like a little monkey, wraps herself around Moira's leg and squeezes, her own version of a good morning hug. She greets her siblings quietly, feeling her parents' eyes on her, and she wonders briefly why they're not hustling the younger kids out the door, on their way to ballet/soccer/chess/tae kwon do.

As if on cue, they herd their quartet of children between them and lead them out the door, calling over their shoulder that they'll be back soon, they're just walking them down to their carpools.

Carpool?

Carpools are from her childhood, from when her parents worked all day and all night and had no time for the child that drove them to such extremes. When Sofia got to the age where she wanted to be in ballet, wanted to play soccer, wanted to do things, they were obsessed with being the ones to take her places, and it was the same with subsequent children.

Carpools were not something they agreed to unless absolutely necessary. Maybe a building her mother designed fell, and she had to figure out what went wrong, whether it was a design flaw or if the builders were incompetent. Maybe there was a beached whale somewhere, and her father was needed to get it back into the water, being the only one with a 'gift' (read: the ability to talk to the animal). Maybe both.

Moira makes herself toast and steals a piece of her mother's turkey bacon. She usually just eats the regular stuff, whatever her dad makes, but, guiltily, secretly, she likes the turkey bacon better. She just doesn't like admitting to having anything in common with her mother.

She steals one more piece, and the morning paper, and retreats to the living room, reclining back and propping her feet up on one of the pillows.

When her parents return with wind chapped cheeks, there's no evidence that she's even been near her mother's bacon, let alone stolen two pieces of it. Nor is there evidence of her toast, and her coffee's almost gone, down to the dregs, and she's about to get up and make a second cup.

She didn't sleep well, last night, too busy dreaming of ways to tell Mr. Dietrich's wife about his affair without letting it slip that it was with a student, with _her_.

She glances up at them, and her stomach drops.

There's something in her father's face, the way his eyes are squinting just a little, like he's already bracing for pain, and there's something in the way that her mother's mouth is set, grim and ready, like she's preparing for something unpleasant, but that must be done.

There's something that tells her goodbye.

Her throat feels thick, like she might choke (if only), and her tongue lead in her mouth, and she has nothing to say to this because her mind is a little fuzzy on the edges. She didn't think this would affect her like this.

It goes something like this.

Her mother walks out first, and drags one of the armchairs over, settling into it slowly. Moira remembers that armchair from her childhood, the one she would curl up in with a book and occasionally her mother there to read it to her.

Her father follows suit, and she thinks with a start that they've effectively blocked her in, knowing that her favorite response to these types of things is to run for her room and lock the door, or run for the fire escape and lock herself away at Elissa's, or run for the front door and keep running. They know she will try to run, and they have positioned themselves in such a way that, no matter where she turns or how fast she goes, one of them will be up and blocking her path before she can make it out.

Her heart races, and she can feel it pounding blood into her hands, can feel the heat rush through her body, can feel her pulse in her head. Her breath hitches out of involuntary fear.

It is no longer something she can control; her body reads the situation as the same, and responds thusly.

It is only then that she realizes her purse is in her mother's hands.

Her heart stops, she thinks, sputtering to a start when she reminds herself that she has nothing to be ashamed of. A few cigarettes? The pack's mostly empty anyway. A gun? Her parents know about that already, know that it's one of the weapons the Athena cabin gave her. The sword? Poseidon's gift, same with the dagger and shield. There's nothing in there for her to fear.

Her mother asks calmly, quietly, "Do you know what's in here, Moira?"

She nods shortly, cutting her eyes between her father, who looks pained, and her mother, who looks…blank. She's not sure what's happening, anymore.

Her mother unzips the bag, pulling out her makeup bag. She thinks she threw it in there for Elissa's house, and just didn't unpack it. Her heart stops again, because she knows what they've found, what will come spilling out as her mother unzips it.

Her mother does not turn it over, but instead slips her hand in and pulls out a plastic bag. And this is when her heart explodes, she thinks. Inside the plastic bag, like she knew it would be, is a myriad of pills; Lunesta, Vicodin, OxyContin, Xanax, Nembutal, Percocet, Valium, and then there are the few that she was actually prescribed. She hasn't actually taken all of them, she knows for a fact she hasn't tried the Vicodin, thanks to reports of freaky dreams after it. That doesn't matter to them, whether or not she's actually tried all of them, she knows. It's the fact that she has them.

Her mother chokes out, "Moira, I–," at the same time as she forces out, "It's not what it looks like," and her father looks as if he might cry as he says, "I'm so disappointed in you."

She's really screwed herself over this time, she thinks.

Her mother drops her bag onto the floor and says slowly, "I think…I think it might be best if you spent a little time at camp. Maybe not for the whole year, but–." Moira looks up sharply at this, biting her tongue to keep from screaming her refusal.

Her mother pauses, expecting an outburst, and when the expected outburst does not occur, she continues, "But at least for the rest of the semester. We," she draws out the word, glancing over at her husband before saying, "we think it would be good to get you away from the city for a while."

Moira bites the inside of her cheek and asks quietly, "Can I say goodbye to my friends?"

She doesn't think they'll say yes. She doubts they'll even let her pack for herself, and if they allow her that, she's almost certain that her mother will search her bag first.

Her mother fishes her phone out of her bag and hands it over, telling her, "Call them."

Moira nods shortly and retreats to her room, feeling helpless as she begins to cry and has no control to stop it. Elissa picks up on the first ring, and for the first five minutes and seven seconds, Moira can do nothing but cry.

Elissa listens calmly to her, and tells her that her parents are jacked up, and that she'd better call or write or text as soon as she fucking can, and, oh, honey, don't worry, I'll let the other's know, okay?

She can't articulate it, but she has never been more grateful for her friend's no-nonsense way of handling her problems, or the way she can both comfort her and gently scold her at the same time.

When they hang up, Moira does not get up immediately to face her parents, her mother, red faced and teary as she currently is. She sits on her bed, thoroughly defeated, broken down and unfixable, and wraps her arms around her middle in a pitiful attempt to hold herself together, as if all her problems will be resolved as long as she doesn't fall to pieces.

It does not help.

She begins to cry in earnest once again, her sobs jagged and ripping through her body, tearing through her lungs and throat, leaving her raw and vulnerable. This should not be affecting her like so.

She thinks she has always expected this, has always been prepared, somewhere deep down, to leave, either by force or by choice, especially since she started with the pills.

But right now, it feels like the end of her world as she knows it, the end of what little half-life she has cobbled together from the ruins of her childhood.

And now she is going to spend the rest of the semester, _at least_, at that place, where dreams go to die, she thinks bitterly.

She'd like to go back to that summer and stay in her cabin, and stay a child for a bit longer, she thinks. Maybe everything wouldn't be so fucked up. Maybe she'd be able to look her mother in the eye again. Maybe she'd be able to let her father hug her. Maybe Thomas Dietrich would have been a teacher to her, and nothing else –_lover-traitor-heartbreaker_.

Maybe she would be someone she could own up to, someone her parents could be proud of.

She cries a little harder at the thought.

* * *

**BEFORE**

* * *

Malcolm adjusts her stance, his hands warm at her elbows, at her hips, tilting her this way, tweaking her that way.

It makes her sick.

She wants to run far, far away, as far as her legs can carry her and then a bit further.

She wants to run away from him, and from this secret that he's forced upon her, one that she has no way of ridding herself of. It is his fault. It is all his fault. She tries to ignore the voice within her that suggests the unthinkable; that maybe she wanted it to happen, just a little bit.

* * *

**...**

* * *

The car ride is silent. Moira leans her head against the window, her heart aching for a home she's never really liked, for a city that she had claimed as her own, and she lets her eyes slide shut.

* * *

**...**

* * *

Her parents leave her in the car to go up and talk to Chiron and Mr. D about her abrupt arrival.

Even here, it's no secret that she's not on the best terms with her parents, but she has no doubt that there will be more than a few raised eyebrows directed at her when she appears at dinner.

When they return, they look older than they should.

At thirty five, her parents are younger than most, and sometimes, when the walk out looking like they do now, like they've aged an eon in ten minutes, she feels indescribably guilty.

She trains her eyes on the ground as she gets out and shoulders her bags, stares at their shoes as they walk her back to the Big House.

Chiron is there on the porch, his eyes disappointed and mournful, and she knows that her parents have told him.

The goodbyes are a quiet, detached affair for her, standing still as she allows first her father and then her mother to hug her. She stiffens a bit at her mother's hug, and pats her elbow awkwardly as she breathes her in.

The brain is an interesting thing, but the heart is even more confusing. There were certain things that one could not overwrite within their heart, like how comforting the scent of their mother is.

Moira's mother smells of lemon shampoo and her perfume, something warm and cinnamon-like, and it never fails to soothe her battered soul.

Even now, as her brain is repeating it's mantra –_she has never been there for you, will never be there for you, was not there for you when you _needed _her, hate her hate her hate her_– her heart swells with emotion.

All this happens within the few moments that her mother embraces her. When she releases her, Moira's on the brink of tears again. She has never denied that she cries a lot, ever since she entered puberty her emotions have always seemed to remain firmly within the exceptionally emotional spectrum, but this is excessive, she thinks, crying every few minutes over something she knew that was going to happen eventually.

She stays on the porch and watches them walk away, watches as they back away in their car, stays long after Chiron has sighed quietly and rolled himself back inside. She stays, her bags at her feet, and her body sagging against the wall, until she collapses into a chair.

She's still not quite sure what has just happened.

But she knows that she is exhausted and that her parents are not coming back for her, at least not for months.

Whatever she thought she knew about abandonment, about being left behind; it has nothing on this.

She has never felt so lost.

* * *

**...**

* * *

Chiron watches as Moira's head droops as she dozes.

He doesn't quite have the heart to wake her, to make her pick a cabin and head there before dinner. She looks something like a doll left on a shelf for too long, cobwebs gathering in the place her soul had once been, in the place where her spirit had burned bright for years, just like her mother's, just like her father's.

The fire was extinguished now, obviously.

When she collapsed into the chair, he had not thought he had seen someone –a _girl_, because that's all she really _is_– look so broken. She looked as if the battle, the war, the world had been lost to her.

Maybe it has been.

He had never quite understood his favorite campers' relationship with their eldest child, just that it was complicated and, from what he gathered from Moira, she was especially distant from her mother, due to events that may or may not have had anything to do with her at all.

But he does know that them leaving her here, at this dark time, though they knew nothing of it when deciding, of course, is not in her best interest.

Someone so defeated…they are easily swayed.

He could only hope she would be swayed onto their side of the line in the sand. He mutters a quiet blessing before wheeling himself back to his consultations.

* * *

**...**

* * *

When the sun begins to dip below the hills, and the conch sounds for dinner, Moira startles awake, having dozed off where she sat, and for a brief moment, she wonders if she's dreamt it all, and that it's still summer.

The chill in the air proves this theory incorrect. Her fingers trembling, she unzips her bag and digs through it, pulling out a sweatshirt she stole from one boy or another, and she pulls it on over her head. She thinks that Chiron or Mr. D will make her change into a camp shirt soon, but maybe they will take pity upon her poor, all-but-orphaned ass and let her stave it off until morning.

Moira stands slowly and carries her bags inside the Big House, to be collected later, and walks to the dining pavilion briskly, her legs moving quickly though her mind begs for them to stop. It is there that, she knows, she is going to see him.

And it is there, she decides, she will smile sweetly and make him think she doesn't care to remember his face.

* * *

**...**

* * *

He's not there, and so, dejected and deflated, stripped of her pride and of what would have been a small triumph against her tormentor, Moira waits in line to scrape off some of her food and offer it to the gods.

There are four people in front of her; two Apollo girls, one Hephaestus boy– a gentle giant if there ever was– and a Hades girl. She knows them, from summer, but she can't help but feel a little lost, a little bit more than a little lonely.

All of her friends, all of the girls and boys she would normally gravitate towards, they all leave for the school year, and only return for summers. The camp feels empty. This is not to say that she has no one here; there's Dana, daughter of Demeter, who waves and grins at her, and there's Goodwin, better known as Win, son of Eris, who slips into line behind her.

There are others, too. She figures they are away on quests, or maybe just ditching dinner. It was always rumored during the summers that rules were relaxed during the regular year.

Win nudges her elbow with his fork, and Moira twists her neck to catch a glimpse of him, saying jokingly, "Sir, I've got to warn you, I'm known to emasculate men who nudge. My. _Elbow_."

This is where their interaction ends, because suddenly the four in front of her have dwindled to one, and she must decide who she will pray to.

Unfortunately, there is no god for self-destructive teenage girls.

Mindlessly, she steps forward after the Hades girl leave, and scrapes off a portion of her meal, a bit more than half, but she can't even think about eating a lot, quite honestly, and she stands there for a moment, a split second maybe, and she feels something wash over her, something so wrong, something so deliciously rebellious that she's not quite sure what to do with herself.

She feels like, one day, she will simply refuse to do this, and let the gods feel slighted.

* * *

**...**

* * *

**I would love a review, even if you hate it! Just review!**


	4. that makes saying goodbye so hard

**it hasn't been two months. i'm in denial about it, therefore it hasn't happened. erm, i'm really drunk on cold medications. so excuse ramblings that may occur. **

**disclaimed.**

* * *

**...**

* * *

She stays in the Poseidon cabin tonight, curled between cool bed sheets, with no soft snoring, with no muted whispers of her godly family, because, apparently, the seven that sleep here during the summer have homes for the rest of the year.

_Lucky bastards_.

She realizes, at about three thirty, when she's only gotten seven minutes of sleep, approximately, that she really misses a warm body pressing up against her in the night, keeping her safe and warm and providing a perfect body pillow for her to cuddle.

Even if Thomas was an asshole, even if he is trying to find a way to ruin her life, he was still someone, and more often than not, she would stay with him at a hotel/motel/his house when his wife was out of town, and the warmth he radiated warmed her cold skin, her ice blood. Even assholes were better than being alone.

After another fifteen minutes if silence in the dark, she decides that even getting eaten by harpies is a better alternative than sitting her alone, and she wanders down silently to the beach, digging her toes into the sand and yanking her sweatshirt off, leaving her only in a flimsy tank top and a pair of shorts. The cool air leaves goose bumps on her skin.

It feels nice.

* * *

**...**

* * *

She guesses she must have fallen asleep, because when she wakes up, the camp is alight with activity. How the harpies missed her, she doesn't know. But she does know that everyone is flocking to Thalia's Pine, and she doesn't really want to be pegged as the druggie girl that can't be bothered.

Not yet, anyway.

Coming up over the hill is a lone figure, as far as she can tell, looking ragged and tired and like they'd seen far too much in their time away. As she comes closer, she can tell that it is a boy –man?– tall and broad shouldered, and from where she is, at the back of the growing crowd, she can tell that he's built.

His clothes are torn, and is it bad that her mind immediately jumps to what it'd be like to tear them the rest of the way off his body? To what it'd be like to run a trail of kisses down his chest, to taste him?

Oh, _gods_, there's something wrong with her.

Go a few days without sex and she turns into raging sex addict, sizing up every bipedal organism with a dick as a potential conquest. For a moment, she is ashamed. But only a moment.

The boy-in-a-man's-body crosses the border of camp, sagging against the pine in exhaustion. A couple of Apollo girls swarm him (who is she to judge? Half a minute ago, she was dreaming about ripping his clothes off), but after a moment, she realizes that they're the ones that work in the infirmary, and, for an unexplainable reason, she feels a surge of panic for the man-boy, her heart crawling into her mouth, her stomach twisting in on itself.

She shifts in the crowd, peering around the other campers gathered, and she sees that he's lying prone, the Apollo girls tending to him.

She has the inexplicable urge to cradle his head in her lap, to run her slim fingers through his dark hair.

This is nothing compared to how she feels when he lifts his head, pushed up by an unseen force, and locks eyes with her, giving her a hazy look she knows all too well. It is the haunted look men have coming home from war, and it is the haunted look that little girls adopt after seeing the world and blackness at the heart of it, a look so lost, so terrified that it speaks volumes without requiring the wearer to say a word.

His eyes are dim.

She wants to hold him.

Chiron steps in between and severs the connection, and when the crowd thins again, the man-boy and his attendants are gone, and all that's left is a dark stain of blood outlining his presence.

* * *

**...**

* * *

She finds out from an Aphrodite girl named Sera that Malcolm was away on official camp business, and that he'll be back today in time for sword training. She asks innocently if she'll have to go, and Sera gives her a look akin to pity and says slowly, as if speaking to a slow child, "Yeah, hon, it's mandatory."

She drags mandatory out until it almost doesn't even sound like a word.

As Sera walks away, Moira makes a face at her back.

She goes back to her cabin, which, yes, is still empty, confirming her first thoughts that she is the only person inhabiting to cabin as of now, and she takes a shower, dragging out the minutes until the hot water runs cold. There aren't many options for clothes, so Moira dressed quickly in the obligatory camp shirt and a pair of shorts, the frayed denim rubbing against her thighs as the walks to the arena, sword holstered at her hip, smacking her calf with every step.

Look how far she's come, she thinks bitterly.

A few years ago, she dressed to hide her body, with ill-fitting jeans and baggy sweatshirts as standard fare. And now, look at her, putting her ass and breasts on fine display, dressing so that her legs, her lily-white legs seem to go on for miles, so that he can see, so that he _knows _that she is not her mother.

When she gets to the arena, there's already a crowd, organized in a tightly packed circle around someone, someone whom she assumes to be Malcolm. The crowd thins for a moment, a natural ebb in the tide, and Malcolm looks up and locks eyes with her.

He spares her a smile.

A lazy smile, a casual smile, a 'hey, haven't seen you in a while' smile. It is the smile of a monster.

She responds in kind, with a crocodilian, close lipped smile, pulled tight across her teeth in a chilling mockery of what a smile should be. It's her, and it works, and she holds his gaze, steely and unflinching, until he's forced to look away.

* * *

**...**

* * *

Malcolm's breath is hot on the back of her neck, his arms trapping her as he adjusts her arms.

"You're out of practice," he purrs into her ear.

Moira twists out from him, stepping just out of his reach, and hisses, "Haven't had an excuse."

He adds lightly, "Your stance is sloppy. I expect better of you."

_I expect better of you_.

He has the balls to _expect better _of her.

Moira moves fluidly, like dancing, like ballet, and has him pinned before he can stop her, her sword tip digging up under his chin. He chuckles, mocking her, and she presses harder, choking the chuckle right out of him, and drawing a bit of a crowd. They surround them in a loose semi-circle, entranced, because it's not every day that someone bests the swordsmaster, least of all a summer camper, but one could say that Moira is particularly motivated.

She grins blindingly, suddenly, giggling and saying happily, lightly, with a measured amount of malice allowed in her eyes, "Beat you! I win!"

Is that it? Flipping a switch and turning her emotions off at the drop of a pin?

She dances backwards, watching as he slumps to the ground, and driving her sword into the dirt, leaning on it and waiting for him to get up. She does not offer him a hand, and the message is clear.

She is not the scared little girl she once was. She is more than capable of ending his life. His eyes meet hers, light gray to dark, cold and flat to angry and vengeful, and she sees a chilling apathy behind them.

His lips quirk up into a smile, and he says calmly, "Well done, Moira. Good to know all that one on one practice when you were a kid paid off."

Moira grows cold.

She yanks her sword out of the ground and slips out between the throngs of campers.

* * *

**...**

* * *

Win finds her on her way to the beach, shaking so hard her teeth are chattering and so damn numb she doesn't feel his hands on her arms, leading her away from the ocean and towards the lake.

He knows that, if given the chance, she would strip down to the bare essentials and let the sea swallow her, making her way to the bottom, encased in a protective bubble, there to stay until she felt better.

He also knows that there's a good chance that she won't ever feel better, and would simply will the bubble away, letting the pressure crush her, something so primal, so natural, that even her grandfather's blessing could not protect her from it.

Moira is mildly perturbed at the interruption of what would have been a poetic suicide, but allows Win to guide her to the ground of the lake shore.

He doesn't ask any questions; not about why she's crying, not about why she's at camp in the first place. He simply allows her to curl up in his lap, and he holds her, and he lets her ball her hands up in his shirt, says nothing as she soaks his shoulder with her tears.

Moira's not sure if she's ever been so grateful for human contact in her entire life.

Win rubs her back soothingly, brushing across her shoulder blades lightly, cautious of the scars and damage that he knows still gives her trouble from time to time, and his hands travel no further than mid back.

They have been friends since her first summer, when she was seven and he was eight, and now, even now, after she's killed and after he's killed, and after everything and everyone that's come between, he is still the same boy that held her hand that first night, when she missed her parents, her daddy, desperately, when the bonfire scared her, a child of water and wisdom, and explained that it was nothing but a thing that can be conquered by water.

When she stops sobbing enough to breathe easier, he leans back and looks at her, judging by her face what's happened.

She thinks that he is one of the few people granted with the ability to read her like a book, cover to cover, with only a few edits for censorship purposes, of course. He doesn't know everything, not what is the root of her bad behavior, but he knows that the summer she was thirteen changed her, changed them, changed everything, and that's enough.

He must see the absolute desolation she feels, must see how empty she is, because instead of pressing for answers, he draws her closer still, and rocks her gently.

Moira closes her eyes and presses her forehead against his shoulder, blocking out the world around them and listening to his heart thrum steadily beneath her.

* * *

**...**

* * *

The stay out there for gods know how long, though the position changes, because Moira's legs start cramping, curled up as they were, and Win's back begins to ache, supporting her in an upright position.

They end up lying on their sides, facing each other, and Moira is curled into the curve of Win's body, his arms wrapped around her back. He has a few inches on her, and he rests his chin on the top of her head. She matches her breathing with his.

With anyone else, she would be uncomfortable this close, close enough to stab, to strangle, to _end_, and maybe, depending on the person, she'd be afraid that they'd try something, something she'd have no power to stop, but Win's hands stay chastely laced together on her waist, and his body stays relaxed.

She does not fear him. She has no reason to.

For everything she is, for everything she does, Moira does not act without reason, feel without reason.

Chiron finds them like this, wrapped up together, not quite awake, but not quite asleep, either. Moira is conscious enough to notice how he hesitates, his hooves clopping as he stalls out just before them. Finally, he clears his throat, and Moira feels Win jerk back to complete alertness, feels his head move as he twists to turn to look at Chiron, trying so hard to not jostle her thin frame.

Chiron murmurs, "It is time for archery, children."

Moira bristles at the word, muscles tensing and alerting Win to her consciousness, and she slips out from his arms, struggling through the sand to get to her feet. Win follows soon after.

His fingers slip through hers, innocent and warm and comforting, _familiar_, and they walk to the archery range, disregarding the fact that, considering the age difference, he should really be at the rock wall, practicing dodging lava, and she should be fighting with a bow right about now, trying to hit a target and not flesh, much like she wants to.

The archermaster says nothing as they arrive, just jerks his head over in the direction of the bows of all sizes, and arrows of all levels of lethality.

Moira lets go of Win's hand first, slipping away from him quietly to select a medium sized bow, the right weight for her, and arrows with tips meant for storing poison to eject upon impact.

Slow working things as they were, she knew firsthand how gods-awful one of them can be, giving you a few hours of just feeling crappy as the venom worked its way into the blood system before you fall, wracked with tremors, your heart speeding up dangerously, bringing you to a cliff and then bringing you back, slowing it to almost nothing until you honestly feel like you're just going to fall asleep, just to reel you back, dragging your death out for hours unless you're given the antidote, and even then, recovery is torturously long, several days at the least, spent bedridden, swearing you see things that can't be there.

She should know.

She's been hit by these on three different occasions.

But, of course, there's no poison in them now.

Too risky to have around the kids, she supposes.

Pity.

Gods know that some of them need a near death experience.

Just to check, though, Moira thinks, gently pressing the tip of her index finger to one of the arrows. No sting, nothing. Safe as any sharp weapon can be, she supposes.

Moira moves languidly, slipping up behind Win and slouching. She's never been any good at archery; too far away and taking more focus than she was ever willing to give, and, quite honestly, not as cool as anything else. But it's required.

Meh.

She watches a few steps away from him, watches as he strings his bow and aims. She's always been a little jealous of him in this regard, because she beats his ass when it comes to swordsmanship, and yeah, she swims a lot better than him, but when Win has a bow and arrow in his hands, there's something in the air, a still that draws attention.

He's not ripped, not built by any means, but he is all muscle, all hiding just below the surface, a quiet strength that materializes in moments like this, when he's relaxed and in his element.

His first arrow just barely misses the bullseye. The second, third, and fourth are perfect.

Moira makes a noise of disbelief and discontent, knocking her elbow into Win as he turns to move back, giving her a clear shot at the target.

Not that it helps her aim much.

The arrow goes far left of the target, and Moira growls under her breath, because _fuck_, that just seems to be happening all the damn time for her, doesn't it?

* * *

**...**

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**notes: i have a tumblr now. **fat beotch in a skinny world **(no spaces). feel free to drop me a message! i like making friends!**

**review?**


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